All Quiet on the Orient Express

Four

The first I knew of it was when Tony leaned over the counter and said, “There’s a pint of Ex in the pump for you when you’re ready.”

“Where’s that come from then?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly, causing me to glance past him. Beyond the counter in the top bar I saw Mr Parker conversing with the landlord and one or two locals. When he saw me looking he gave me a nod and a quiet smile.

“Courtesy of your boss,” said Tony.

“Er…he’s not really my boss,” I said. “I’ve just been doing some odd jobs for him, that’s all.”

Tony smiled. “Whatever you say.”

I wasn’t the only recipient of Mr Parker’s generosity. There was apparently also a pint in the pump for Bryan Webb. The man on the bar stool received one as well, even though he’d played no part in the rowing boats’ recovery. In the last couple of days I’d gathered that his name was Kenneth, and that he was some kind of mechanic. I guessed this from the number of conversations he had about car engines. He was constantly being asked questions on the subject of carburettors, spark plugs and anti-freeze, to which he always replied, “Bring it round sometime and I’ll have a look at it.”

Shortly after receiving his new pint Kenneth carted it off to the top bar, announcing that he needed to ‘see Tommy about something’.

As the evening continued I glanced from time to time through to where Mr Parker was holding court, and was struck by how important his presence seemed to be. People were continually going up to talk to him, then coming back with looks on their faces that suggested they’d been granted their deepest wish. After half an hour or so it seemed appropriate to buy him a drink in return for the one he’d bought me, so I asked Tony to find out what he’d like.

“He’ll have a light ale with you if that’s alright,” came the reply.

This seemed very reasonable and I happily forked out the price of the drink. I was surprised, however, when Tony returned with a message from Mr Parker.

“He says have you got that pound you owe him?”

“Er…oh, yes,” I said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

I handed the money over and Tony took it up to the top bar. This incident could have been embarrassing, but most people’s attention was now on the darts, and nobody took any notice. I decided to put it out of mind, and went and chalked my name up on the blackboard.

A little later Tony let it be known that the final drops of Topham’s Excelsior Bitter had at last been consumed, and that there were only keg and bottled beers left. I looked at my empty glass and reflected that it was a good job I was leaving in a couple of days’ time.

Walking back to the campsite after the pub closed I heard again the distant chime from across the lake. Yes, it was definitely ‘Half a pound of treacle’. A moment later I caught a glimpse of the faraway vehicle with its faintly glowing lights. It was moving along the road somewhere near Bryan Webb’s place.

♦

Next morning I found Mr Parker in the big shed amidst a flurry of blue sparks. These were accompanied by a sharp crackling noise. I watched for a while, shielding my eyes until the sparks subsided. Then I saw that he was busy welding some winch-gear onto the front of his trailer. It looked like he’d been having a bit of a sort out inside the shed. The boat we’d moved the day before was now resting on some wooden blocks nearby, and there was quite a lot of space cleared around it. When he saw me standing there he lowered his welding mask.

“Morning,” he said. “Just thought I’d get this done while I had the time.”

“Looks like it could be useful,” I remarked.

“Yes, a winch can be very handy. I’ll be finished in a minute. Pass me a new rod, will you, please?”

I stood watching as he completed the work, and then he moved the welding equipment out of the way.

“Right, we’ll give it a quick test.”

There was a length of cable wrapped around the winch drum, with a hook attached to one end. Mr Parker gave me the hook and got me to pull it away across the shed to a distance of about thirty feet. Then he cranked a handle and wound me back in again, until the hook settled against the winch housing.

“That seems to work alright,” he said. “Now then, are you ready to learn about this saw?”

“Ready as ever,” I replied.

“Good. I’ll move the tractor and we can get it fixed on.”

The circular saw remained suspended on the hoist where we’d left it. Mr Parker climbed onto the tractor, started up and manoeuvred it into position. I could see that there were some fixing points on the saw which presumably corresponded with others on the back of the tractor, but unfortunately I didn’t know what went where. As a result Mr Parker had to do most of the connecting up himself, which meant him getting on and off the tractor several times. During the process there were occasional moments when I thought impatience was going to get the better of him. His voice became raised with frustration as he gave his orders, and this seemed to indicate an oncoming crisis. The trouble was, I’d never operated such machinery before and had little idea how it worked. Mr Parker, on the other hand, was obviously well versed in such matters, and couldn’t see why I found any of it difficult. Even when he asked me to lower the hoist slightly I managed to pull it the wrong way so it went upwards instead of down, nettling him yet more.

After ten minutes, however, we had the saw properly connected to the tractor, and he was at ease again. Then he went round the apparatus with a grease gun, applying lubricant to all the bearings. Finally he turned to me.

“Now, I don’t need to tell you that this is a piece of highly dangerous equipment,” he said. “So I think we’d better start with a short demonstration.”

He waved me out of the way and then reached over to the tractor. I heard a clunk as he engaged the driving gear, and instantly the huge blade began to turn. After regulating the engine speed he took a plank from the nearby pile. Carefully positioning his feet, he ran the plank across the blade, cutting it into two. After repeating this a couple of times he stood back and let me have a go at it. Then he showed me how to cut a plank properly to size by making certain adjustments. All the time he kept reminding me to keep well away from the blade because, as he himself pointed out, the safety cover was missing.

“It must have gone astray sometime in the past,” was his only explanation.

He disengaged the power and the blade spun slowly to a halt. Then the two of us set about loading planks onto the trailer, until there were enough to replace all the old ones on the jetty.

“Driven a tractor before?” he asked.

No, I replied, I hadn’t. There next followed a short lesson in how to drive a tractor. Finally we were ready to go. I drove slowly down to the lake, and Mr Parker followed in his pick-up with the trailer in tow. When we arrived beside the jetty he produced a selection of tools from his cab. These included a hammer, a small crowbar and a handsaw. There was also a box of nails.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll just get you started and then the job’s all yours.”

He seized the crowbar and jammed it under the first plank on the jetty, giving it a deft twist. There was a creaking noise and the plank lifted a little. He then repeated the action at the other end. A moment later the plank had come away and he threw it to one side before starting on the next one.

When he’d removed another three or four he turned to me and said, “Well, that’s easy enough done. I think I can leave you to it now. Be careful with that saw bench, won’t you?”

“I’ll try to be,” I replied with a grin. “Otherwise it’ll only be me who regrets it.”

He smiled vaguely and gave me a nod before climbing into his truck and driving away. Then I took the crowbar and set about removing the next plank. I discovered straight away that the task wasn’t as simple as Mr Parker had made it look. Several attempts were required just to get the crowbar in the right position, and even then the plank refused to yield without a fight. When it did finally come away it was in several broken pieces. I realized again that Mr Parker was much stronger than me, despite being perhaps twenty years older. He’d most likely been doing manual work around the place all his life, and it showed. Tools and equipment seemed to be obedient in his hands, whereas I always had a struggle of some kind or other. Still, I had a feeling that the job would become more straightforward as I got used to it, so I pressed on. An hour later I’d successfully removed about a dozen planks. Whoever fixed them on in the first place had certainly done a good job and many of the nails were proving to be particularly steadfast, even though they were quite rusty. Nevertheless, I was beginning to get the better of them. I decided it was now time to cut some new timber. I started up the tractor, walked round it a couple of times to make sure everything looked right, and then engaged the drive. As the saw blade began turning I took a plank from the pile and marked the correct length and width, using one of the old planks as a template. Then I began sawing. To my surprise the first piece of cut timber came out exactly the right size. I was so pleased with it that I stopped the saw and went straight to the jetty to get it nailed on. Suddenly I had a picture of what the completed job would look like. I was rebuilding a jetty at the edge of a lake, and realized that in this way I would be leaving my mark on the place. If I ever returned I could come to the waterside and examine my handiwork to see how it was lasting against the elements. Maybe point the jetty out to someone and say, “It was me who built that.”

Or rebuilt it anyway.

I spent the rest of the morning cutting planks and fixing them in position, before prising off some more of the old ones. It had slowly dawned on me as the hours passed that this wasn’t going to be a quick job that I could knock off in one day, but that didn’t seem important any more as I was quite enjoying it. I had no idea how much Mr Parker was planning to pay me for this work as we hadn’t discussed the matter, but presumably he had a figure in mind based on how long it took to complete. No doubt I’d find out what it was in due course. Meanwhile, I was feeling slightly peckish, so I walked up to the caravan and had something to eat. There was no sign of Mr Parker or his pick-up truck, so I guessed he was out on some business or other. His absence made the yard seem very quiet. For one moment I was tempted to go and poke around in the big shed to see what else was stored there, but I thought I had better not in case he suddenly came back. Instead I strolled down to the lake and continued work.

It was an hour later while I was busy cutting some more timber that I realized I had a visitor. I’d just turned round to select a new plank from the pile when I became aware of an elderly man standing at the edge of the trees, watching. He gave no sign of acknowledgement, however, so I carried on with what I was doing. The combined din of the tractor and the circular saw tended to isolate me from the rest of the world, and I was also keeping a constant eye on the spinning blade. As a result I had no idea how long he’d been there. Presumably he’d come across me by chance while out for a lakeside walk. I expected him to move on at any moment, but when I again glanced towards the trees I saw that he’d come a little closer. After a while he was near enough for me to give him a friendly nod. He responded by offering the next plank and holding it steady as I measured it. Then, while I was getting it cut, he took the template and marked another plank in advance. Then another one after that. This saved me quite a bit of time, and a few minutes later I had several more pieces of timber ready. I shut the saw down and switched the tractor off, turning to the old man as the noise faded.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was a great help.”

“About time this job was done,” he replied.

“Yes,” I agreed. “It wouldn’t have been safe to leave it much longer.”

“That other lad should have done it while he was here.”

“What other lad?”

“The one who was helping with the boats.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean Bryan Webb.”

“That fool who goes round in the cardboard crown?”

“Er…yeah.”

“No,” said the old man. “I’m not talking about him.”

“Well,” I replied. “I don’t really know anyone else.”

He shook his head with impatience. “There was a lad here during the summer, supposed to be looking after the boats. Idle perisher, he was.”

“Was he?”

“Never did a stroke.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know they had someone doing that.”

“As soon as there was any proper work to be done he took off. Last thing he did was paint that hut, and you can see what a pig’s ear he made of it.”

I glanced towards the hut and remembered the problems we’d had getting the hatch open a couple of days ago.

“Yes,” I remarked. “I noticed the paintwork was a bit slapdash.”

“Bit slapdash?” snapped the old man. “He shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a paintbrush!”

“No, suppose not.”

“You look like you’d do a much better job.”

“Thanks.”

“Shame you had to go and spill green all over Parker’s gateway though.”

“Oh…er…yes.”

“Still, at least you had the sense to make it into a square.” He now turned his attention to the pile of planks. “Good load of timber, this.”

“I don’t really know anything about it.”

“Well, take my word for it,” he said. “It’s good.”

Shortly afterwards I resumed work on the jetty. The elderly man seemed to know something about joinery and stayed to help out for a while, positioning the planks and occasionally adding a few extra nails here and there. As the afternoon progressed, however, he began to show signs of tiredness, and eventually wandered off after telling me I was doing a ‘reasonable’ job. I thanked him for his help and said goodbye before he receded into the trees. Then I got back to work.

The light was beginning to fade when Mr Parker appeared in his pick-up truck. He got out and walked onto the jetty, pressing the new planks with his boots and generally carrying out a thorough examination. Meanwhile, I watched and awaited his verdict.

“I thought you’d have got a bit further than this,” he said at length.

“Should get it finished tomorrow,” I replied.

“That’s alright then. Can you put the tractor in the shed overnight, please?”

“OK.”

He went over to the pick-up and got the grease gun, before going round the machinery once again to treat all the moving parts. When he’d finished I started up the tractor and set off towards the shed. By the time I got back to the caravan darkness was falling and I felt like I’d done a good day’s work. I had a cup of tea and then went over to the house to see about getting some hot water, taking Gail Parker’s completed homework with me. It was she who answered the door.

“Here you are,” I said. “Shouldn’t be any mistakes now.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile, putting the exercise book to one side without even glancing at it.

“Is there any chance of a bucket of hot water, so I can get a wash?”

“You can get it from the boiler room,” she replied. “Just a sec.”

She took a key from a hook and led me round the foot of the house to another outside door. Unlocking it, she went inside and turned on the light.

“You’ll probably find it quite hot in here,” she remarked as I followed her in.

In the dim light I could see a large boiler throbbing away in the middle of the room, beneath a black aluminium flue. There were a number of water pipes leading up to the ceiling, and one of them had a tap plumbed into it.

“Got a bucket?” asked Gail.

“Oh,” I said. “Er…no.”

“There’s one there.”

I turned and saw a bucket in the corner and went to reach for it. At the same moment Gail squeezed past me to do the same thing.

“Sorry,” I said as we bumped together.

“That’s alright,” she said, smiling as she handed it to me. “Will you be wanting any more after this?”

“Any more what?”

“Hot water.”

“Might do, yes,” I replied.

“Right, I’ll see if I can find you a spare key.”

“Thanks.”

She left me filling the bucket and went out. I thought she’d be coming straight back so I waited a while, but after ten minutes there was no sign of her. I eventually gave up and returned to the caravan, where I enjoyed the luxury of my first wash and shave in hot water for several days. Then I perused the Trader’s Gazette over supper before going out for the evening.

During the day I’d decided it might be nice to visit Millfold’s other pub before leaving the area, just for a change of scenery. I hadn’t gone there before because it didn’t look as lively as the Packhorse, and seemed to cater for more staid types of people. Nevertheless, I thought it might be worth giving a try. It was called the Ring of Bells and occupied the opposite side of the square, next door to Hodge’s shop.

It came as no surprise to find that Hodge was one of the few customers. He showed some sign of recognition when I walked in, and murmured something to the landlord before greeting me with a nod. He was sitting at the end of the counter with a whisky glass. Another man occupied a stool some distance away, and there were two others sitting at a table by the window, but apart from these people the place was deserted. The landlord seemed friendly enough, however, and took a beer glass from the shelf the moment he saw me.

“Pint of?” he asked.

“Got any Topham’s Excelsior?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Not enough demand for it round here.”

“Oh, OK,” I said. “Pint of lager then, please.”

“Right you are.”

While the landlord was pouring my drink, Hodge decided to start up a conversation.

“On the bike tonight?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “Prefer to walk.”

“Don’t use it much, do you?”

“Not for short journeys, no.”

“Haven’t seen you out and about on it for several days.”

“No, well, I’ve been busy.”

“But I thought you were supposed to be on holiday.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I am.”

To tell the truth, I found this Hodge bloke quite irritating and was beginning to regret coming into the Ring of Bells. After all, it wasn’t much of a pub as far as atmosphere went. There was no dartboard, no raucous character in a cardboard crown, and no subtle division between top and bottom bar. All there was were these people sitting around sipping whisky and asking banal questions. Alright, so the Packhorse wasn’t exactly the centre of the galaxy, but it beat the Ring of Bells hands down for entertainment value. I spent a dull evening wondering what it would be like living here if this was the only pub, and made a mental note not to bother coming back.

♦

I was down by the lakeside quite early next morning, determined to get the jetty finished the same day. I saw Mr Parker looking out of his kitchen window as I went off on the tractor, but he didn’t come out. In fact I didn’t see him to speak to until the evening. Meanwhile I pressed on with the repairs. By now I had grown quite adept at removing the old planks, and was also much more confident when operating the circular saw. Sometime in the afternoon the old man turned up again, and he was soon lending a hand. I didn’t know whether he’d come back on purpose or just happened to be passing by, but either way he helped speed the work up considerably. At the same time there was no question that I would need to reward him for his efforts. As far as I could make out he was helping because, like me, he had nothing better to do. We finished the job just before dusk, and once again he wandered off without saying goodbye. I then began packing the tools away and gathered up the remaining planks to take them back to the yard. Finally, when it was all done, I went and stood on the end of the jetty and gazed out across the lake.

During the day I’d detected a change in the climate. It appeared that the sunny weather was over for good, and now a slight breeze was starting up. The water had a grey look about it which no longer suggested a pleasant afternoon’s boating. The sky too was grey, and the fells seemed to be looming rather closely. It struck me that this was just about the right time to be moving on. After a while I heard a vehicle approaching, and turned round to see Mr Parker’s truck pulling onto the shore. Piled in the back were a number of empty oil drums. He approached and joined me oh the jetty.

“Did you say you were leaving tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “That’s the plan anyway.”

“Well, you’ll need to get away early,” he said. “We’ve got some rain coming.”

“Yes, I thought it looked a bit gloomy.”

“The weatherman says the isobars are closing in.”

“Does he?”

“It’s 978, falling rapidly.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

Mr Parker had been peering at the opposite shore of the lake, but now he turned to me.

“You’ll not have seen it rain here, will you?”

“It did rain a bit the other day, yes.”

“That was nothing,” he said. “You haven’t seen this place until you’ve seen it rain properly.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Teems down, it does.”

“I bet.”

“So I’d get away early if I were you.”

“OK.”

And with that he turned and made his way back to the truck. We loaded the spare planks between the oil drums, then he drove off while I followed in the tractor.

I was slightly disconcerted that he’d made no mention of how much he was going to pay me, but it occurred to me that there was no particular hurry as I wasn’t leaving until the next day.

More disappointing was the fact that he hadn’t remarked on the quality of my workmanship. It didn’t bother me unduly, but it would have been nice if he’d at least said something about it. Even if it was just to note that I’d sawn all the timber straight.

Then I realized that it was probably no big deal to him, nothing more than another job finished and out of the way. The last thing he was going to do was heap praise on someone for doing a bit of joinery.

After we’d put the gear in the shed, however, he paused by the door.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I probably owe you something for that work you’ve done for me.”

“Er…well, it doesn’t matter really,” I replied.

“Of course it does,” he declared. “It was quite remiss of us not making a proper arrangement beforehand.”

“Suppose it was.”

“So I really must let you have something before you leave.”

“Right.”

He indicated the green petrol pump beside the shed.

“How would you like me to fill your tank up?”

“Oh…OK,” I said. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “That’s the least I can offer.”

I went round and got my bike, and he squeezed two and half gallons into the petrol tank.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I hope you’ve been comfortable in the caravan, have you?”

“Oh,” I said quickly. “Yes, it was very kind of you.”

“That’s good.”

He locked the pump and then turned to me.

“Right. Well, I might not see you when you leave, so have a good trip and come back sometime if you can.”

We shook hands and he headed across to his house, where I noticed the lights inside had already been turned on for the evening. This gave it a very warm, comfortable appearance and made the rest of the yard seem fairly bleak in comparison. When I got round to my caravan I realized the wind was increasing steadily. Somewhere in the mounting gloom I could hear an irregular clanging that suggested one of the corrugated sheets on the big shed had come loose. Several times during the next hour I went out to see if I could identify the exact source of the noise, but it was soon too dark to see. I decided there was probably nothing much wrong anyway. No doubt Mr Parker knew about the problem and would get it fixed in his own good time. Meanwhile, I set about preparing some supper. After that I planned to get my stuff packed and work out what I’d need for the journey next day. One particular item was of great importance. Somewhere in the bottom of my bag lay a set of waterproofs, and I was thankful I’d remembered to bring them.

With the wet weather gathering outside it was odd to think that when I first arrived here it had still felt like summer. That seemed a long time ago now, but actually it was less than a fortnight. I was trying to imagine what an entire winter would be like when a knock came on the caravan door. It was Gail.

“I’ve brought you the spare key to the boiler room,” she said.

“Oh thanks,” I replied. “Er…you know I’m going tomorrow, do you?”

“Yeah, but I thought you might like some hot water tonight.”

“Oh right. Well, thanks again.”

She remained standing in the doorway.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They’ve set this essay at school and I don’t know how to do it.”

Just then the wind caught the door and slammed it back against the caravan.

“Come in a sec,” I said. “It’s getting cold out there.”

She stepped inside and I reached round and closed the door.

“Now what’s this essay about?”

“It’s called ‘Where I live’.”

“Is that the title?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s got to be a description really.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” I said. “I’d have thought that would be fairly straightforward.”

“Why?”

“Cos you live somewhere quite interesting, don’t you? With the fells and the sheep and everything. And the lake.”

“What’s so interesting about that?”

“Well, nothing really, I suppose. But it should be easy enough to describe.”

“So what do I put then?”

While we were speaking I’d become aware that she had a rough exercise book in her hand. She now opened it and stood ready with a pencil.

“You want some suggestions, do you?”

“Please,” she said.

“OK, you could start with, “I live in a place…” No, hang on. “The place where I live is…”Er…maybe it would be better if you were sitting down.”

“Alright then.”

“Tell you what, you sit there and I’ll stand here.”

“OK.”

She sat down on the folding bed, while I moved to the opposite side of the caravan before resuming.

“Right, ready?”

“Yeah.”

“‘The place where I live is different to many other places’.”

I paused while she wrote it down.

“No, wait a sec. Change that to ‘different from many other places’.”

She tutted. “Couldn’t you just write it and I’ll copy it out after?”

“What, you mean you want me to do the whole thing?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll be better at it than me.”

“Well, I was planning to go out tonight.”

She smiled. “It won’t take you long.”

“No, I suppose not,” I said. “But you might have trouble with my handwriting.”

“I expect I’ll be alright.”

I thought about it for a moment. “OK then, I’ll do a basic version and you’ll have to tidy it up.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it on the shelf here.”

“Right.” She rose from the bed and went to the doorway before giving me another smile. “Thanks again.”

“Er…when did you say you were sixteen?” I asked.

“Easter,” she replied.

“Oh well, happy birthday in advance.”

“Thanks, bye.”

And she disappeared into the night.

I spent about three-quarters of an hour writing that essay, but I probably could have done it in ten minutes if I’d had to. It was a piece of cake really, as easy as painting by numbers. I simply described the maroon boats at rest near the wooded margins of the lake, and the looming fells brooding in the autumn gloom. There was also a bit at the end about the fulsome moon waxing against a starry backdrop, which I thought sounded quite nice. Then I fetched a bucket of hot water, had a wash and went out. I didn’t want to drink too much tonight, so I decided to take the motorbike for a change. When I got to Millfold I parked it in the square and entered the Packhorse through the front door. As I passed by the top bar I noticed it was fairly quiet, but this deficit was made up for in the bottom one, which seemed to be quite full, although I didn’t recognize many faces. The moment I walked in I was greeted by Gordon from behind the counter.

“Glad you’ve turned up,” he said. “We’re playing the Journeyman at darts tonight, and we’re a man short. Can you help us out?”

“Well,” I replied. “I’m not very experienced at match play.”

“That’s alright. We just want you to make the numbers up.”

I glanced round the crowded bar. “Doesn’t anyone else want to play?”

“They’re all from the Journeyman,” said Gordon.

“Well, I’m not a local,” I said.

“Don’t worry about that. You’ve been in here enough times to qualify.”

“Oh, OK then. Where is the Journeyman anyway?”

“Wainskill, about ten miles up the road.”

In this unexpected way I was roped in for a full-scale Inter-Pub League darts match. It came as no surprise to find that Bryan Webb was captain of the Packhorse team. Tony was supposed to be vice-captain, but because his father had been called away somewhere his services were required behind the counter to assist Gordon. Which was why they needed my help. Bryan quickly adopted me into his side and introduced me to the rest of the team, which included the mechanic Kenneth. As it happened, they all seemed to know who I was anyway, and spoke to me as if we’d been acquainted for years.

It was a good night. The players and their supporters from the Journeyman were numerous enough to give the match a proper competitive atmosphere, and to my surprise I won two of my games. I also noticed that there were quite a few women present, including the one I’d seen talking to Gordon and Tony on previous occasions. After a while I gathered that she was a sort of player-manager for the Journeyman team, and that she’d been over the other night to go through the arrangements for the match. It didn’t take long to find out her name was Lesley.

“Shame we haven’t got any Ex for you,” remarked Gordon when I went to the bar for my second pint of keg beer.

“Good job really,” I said. “Otherwise I might have ended up staying here for ever.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s right, you’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well I should try to get away as early as possible. We’ve got some rain coming.”

The increasingly murky climate outside the Packhorse was easily forgotten on an evening like this. Everyone was getting stuck into the drink as usual, and I began to regret bringing my bike since it meant I couldn’t have any more after this. As the darts match progressed I also started to realize that Lesley was paying me quite a bit of attention.

Whatever part of the bar I was in, I noticed that she would soon be standing nearby. Once or twice I tried moving around to see what happened, and each time she moved too, although not obviously enough for anyone else to detect. When victory fell at last to the home side and all the players were going round shaking hands with one another, she came up to me.

“Nice game,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Er…no thanks,” I replied. “Any more and I’ll be over the limit. Thanks anyway.”

She smiled. “Maybe another time.”

“Probably not,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Going anywhere interesting?”

“Yeah, India.”

“Really?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of going overland. You know, Turkey and Persia, that way.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“Have you done much travelling yourself?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Just waiting for the chance.”

“Oh, right.”

“You sure you don’t want that drink?”

“Yeah, sure…thanks.”

Quietly I cursed my luck. What a wasted opportunity! This would have to happen on my last night in the place, and on the only occasion I’d come out on the bike. Next thing Lesley had rejoined her team-mates and our brief conversation was over. I slipped out of the pub shortly afterwards without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. There were now heavy drops of rain on the wind, which was becoming progressively more blustery. When I got back to Hillhouse I remembered Mr Parker’s offer about putting my bike in one of the sheds. I should really have taken him up on it when I had the chance, but it was too late now. The whole place was in darkness when I pulled into the top yard, and I guessed that all the doors would be locked for the night. I parked by the caravan and went inside. Lighting the gas lamp I happened to glance at the shelf where I’d left Gail’s essay. It was gone.